The Rolling Stones

by Robert A. Heinlein

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  FLAT CATS FINANCIAL

  IT TOOK THE BETTER PART

  of two weeks to make the ancient oxy-alcohol engine work; another week to build a scooter rack to receive it, using tubing from Fries’ second-hand supply. It was not a pretty thing, but, with the Stone’s stereo gear mounted on it, it was an efficient way to get around the node. Captain Stone shook his head over it and subjected it to endless tests before he conceded that it was safe even though ugly.

  In the meantime the Committee had decreed a taxi service for the doctor lady; every miner working within fifty miles of City Hall was required to take his turn at standby watch with his scooter, with a fixed payment in high grade for any run he might have to make. The Stones saw very little of Edith Stone during this time; it seemed as if every citizen of Rock City had been saving up ailments.

  But they were not forced to fall back on Hazel’s uninspired cooking. Fries had the Stone warped into contact with City Hall and a passenger tube sealed from the Stone’s lock to an unused hatch of the bigger ship; when Dr. Stone was away they ate in his restaurant. Mrs. Fries was an excellent cook and she raised a great variety in her hydroponics garden.

  While they were rigging the scooter the twins had time to mull over the matter of the flat cats. It had dawned on them that here in Rock City was a potential, unexploded market for flat cats. The question was: how best to milk it for all the traffic would bear?

  Pol suggested that they peddle them in the scooter; he pointed out that a man’s sales resistance was lowest, practically zero, when he actually had a flat cat in his hands. His brother shook his head. “No good, Junior.”

  “Why not?”

  “One, the Captain won’t let us monopolize the scooter; you know he regards it as ship’s equipment, built by the crew, namely us. Two, we would burn up our profits in scooter fuel. Three, it’s too slow; before we could move a third of them, some idiot would have fed our first sale too much, it has kittens—and there you are, with the market flooded with flat cats. The idea is to sell them as nearly as possible all at one time.”

  “We could stick up a sign in the store—One-Price would let us—and sell them right out of the Stone.”

  “Better but not good enough. Most of these rats shop only every three or four months. No, sir, we’ve got to build that better mouse trap and make the world beat a path to our door.”

  “I’ve never been able to figure out why anybody would want to trap a mouse. Decompress a compartment and you kill all of them, every time.”

  “Just a figure of speech, no doubt. Junior, what can we do to make Rock City flat-cat conscious?”

  They found a way. The Belt, for all its lonely reaches—or because of them—was as neighborly as a village. They gossiped among themselves, by suit radio. Out in the shining blackness it was good to know that, if something went wrong, there was a man listening not five hundred miles away who would come and investigate if you broke off and did not answer.

  They gossiped from node to node by their more powerful ship’s radios. A rumor of death, of a big strike, or of accident would bounce around the entire belt, relayed from rockman to rockman, at just short of the speed of light. Heartbreak node was sixty-six light-minutes away, following orbit; big news often reached it in less than two hours, including numerous manual relays.

  Rock City even had its own broadcast. Twice a day One-Price picked up the news from Earthside, then rebroadcast it with his own salty comments. The twins decided to follow it with one of their own, on the same wave length—a music & chatter show, with commercials. Oh, decidedly with commercials. They had hundreds of spools in stock which they could use, then sell, along with the portable projectors they had bought on Mars.

  They started in; the show never was very good, but, on the other hand, it had no competition and it was free. Immediately following Fries’ sign-off Castor would say, “Don’t go away, neighbors! Here we are again with two hours of fun and music—and a few tips on bargains. But first, our theme—the war-r-rm and friendly purr of a Martian flat cat.” Pollux would hold Fuzzy Britches up to the microphone and stroke it; the good-natured little creature would always respond with a loud buzz. “Wouldn’t that be nice to come home to? And now for some music: Harry Weinstein’s Sunbeam Six in ‘High Gravity.’ Let me remind you that this tape, like all other music on this program, may be purchased at an amazing saving in Flat Cat Alley, right off the City Hall—as well as Ajax three-way projectors in the Giant, Jr., model, for sound, sight, and stereo. The Sunbeam Six—hit it, Harry!”

  Sometimes they would do interviews:

  Castor: “A few words with one of our leading citizens, Rocks-in-his-head Rudolf. Mr. Rudolf, all Rock City is waiting to hear from you. Tell me, do you like it out here?”

  Pollux: “Naw!”

  Castor: “But you’re making lots of money, Mr. Rudolf?”

  Pollux: “Naw!”

  Castor: “At least you bring in enough high grade to eat well?”

  “Naw!”

  “No? Tell me, why did you come out here in the first place?”

  Pollux: “Bub, was you ever married?”

  Sound effect of blow with blunt instrument, groan, and the unmistakable cycling of an air lock—Castor: “Sorry, folks. My assistant has just spaced Mr. Rudolf. To the purchaser of the flat cat we had been saving for Mr. Rudolf we will give away—absolutely free!—a beautiful pin-up picture printed in gorgeous living colors on fireproof paper. I hate to tell you what these pictures ordinarily sell for on Ceres; it hurts me to say how little we are letting them go for now, until our limited stock is exhausted. To the very first customer who comes in that door wanting to purchase a flat cat we will—Lock that door! Lock that door! All right, all right—all three of you will receive pin-up pictures; we don’t want anyone fighting here. But you’ll have to wait until we finish this broadcast. Sorry, neighbors—a slight interruption but we settled it without bloodshed. But I find myself in a dilemma. I made you a promise and I did not know what would happen, but the truth is, too many customers were already here, pounding on the door of Flat Cat Alley. But to make good our promise I am enlarging it: not to the first customer, not to the second, nor to the third—but to the next twenty persons purchasing flat cats will go, absolutely free, one of these gorgeous pictures. Bring no money—we accept high grade or core material at the standard rates.”

  Sometimes they varied it by having Meade sing. She was not of concert standards, but she had a warm, intimate contralto. After hearing her, a man possessing not even a flat cat felt lonely indeed. She pulled even better than the slick professional recordings; the twins found it necessary to cut her in for a percentage.

  But in the main they depended on the flat cats themselves. The boomers from Mars, almost to a man, bought flat cats as soon as they heard that they were available, and each became an unpaid traveling salesman for the enterprise. Hardrock men from Luna, or directly from Earth, who had never seen a flat cat, now had opportunities to see them, pet them, listen to their hypnotic purr—and were lost. The little things not only stirred to aching suppressed loneliness, but, having stimulated it, gave it an outlet.

  Castor would hold Fuzzy Britches to the mike and coo, “Here is a little darling—Molly Malone. Sing for the boys, honey pet.” While he stroked Fuzzy Britches Pollux would step up the power. “No, we can’t let Molly go—she’s a member of the family. But here is Bright Eyes. We’d like to keep Bright Eyes, too, but we mustn’t be selfish. Say hello to the folks, Bright Eyes.” Again he would stroke Fuzzy Britches. “Mr. P., now hand me Velvet.”

  The stock of flat cats in deep freeze steadily melted. Their stock of high grade grew.

  Roger Stone received their suggestion that they save out a few for breeding stock with one of his more emphatic refusals; once, he declaimed, was enough to be swamped in flat cats. Fuzzy Britches could stay, safely on short rations—but one was enough.

  They had reached the last few at the back of the ho
ld and were thinking about going out of business when a tired-looking, grey-haired man showed up after their broadcast. There were several other customers; he hung back and let the twins sell flat cats to the others. He had with him a girl child, little older than Lowell. Castor had not seen him before but he guessed that he might be Mr. Erska; bachelors far outnumbered families in the node and families with children were very rare. The Erskas picked up a precarious living down orbit and north; they were seldom seen at City Hall. Mr. Erska spoke Basic with some difficulty; Mrs. Erska spoke it not at all. The family used some one of the little lingos—Icelandic, it might have been.

  When the other customers had left the Stone Castor put on his professional grin and introduced himself. Yes, it was Mr. Erska. “And what can I do for you today, sir? A flat cat?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “How about a projector? With a dozen tapes thrown in? Just the thing for a family evening.”

  Mr. Erska seemed nervous. “Uh, very nice, I’m sure. No.” He tugged at the little girl’s hand. “We better go now, babykin.”

  “Don’t rush off. My baby brother is around somewhere—or was. He’d like to meet your kid. Maybe he’s wandered over into the store. I’ll look for him.”

  “We better go.”

  “What’s the rush? He can’t be far.”

  Mr. Erska swallowed in embarrassment. “My little girl. She heard your program and she wanted to see a flat cat. Now she’s seen one, so we go.”

  “Oh.” Castor brought himself face to face with the child. “Would you like to hold one, honey?” She did not answer, but nodded solemnly. “Mr. P., bring up the Duchess.”

  “Right, Mr. C.” Pollux went aft and fetched the Duchess—the first flat cat that came to hand, of course. He came back, warming it against his belly to revive it quickly.

  Castor took it and massaged it until it flattened out and opened its eyes. “Here, honeybunch. Don’t be afraid.”

  Still silent, the child took it, cuddled it. The small furry bundle sighed and began to purr. Castor turned to her father. “Don’t you want to get it for her?”

  The man turned red. “No, no!”

  “Why not? They’re no trouble. She’ll love it. So will you.”

  “No!” He reached out and tried to take the flat cat from his daughter, speaking to her in another language.

  She clung to it, replying in what was clearly the negative. Castor looked at them thoughtfully. “You would like to buy it for her, wouldn’t you?”

  The man looked away. “I can’t buy it.”

  “But you want to.” Castor glanced at Pollux. “Do you know what you are, Mr. Erska. You are the five hundredth customer of Flat Cat Alley.”

  “Uh?”

  “Didn’t you hear our grand offer? You must have missed some of our programs. The five hundredth flat cat is absolutely free.”

  The little girl looked puzzled but clung to the flat cat. Her father looked doubtful. “You’re fooling?”

  Castor laughed. “Ask Mr. P.”

  Pollux nodded solemnly. “The bare truth, Mr. Erska. It’s a celebration of a successful season. One flat cat, absolutely free with the compliments of the management. And with it goes either one pin-up, or two candy bars—your choice.”

  Mr. Erska seemed only half convinced, but they left with the child clinging to “Duchess” and the candy bars. When the door was closed behind them Castor said fretfully, “You didn’t need to chuck in the candy bars. They were the last; I didn’t mean us to sell them.”

  “Well, we didn’t sell them; we gave ’em away.”

  Castor grinned and shrugged. “Okay, I hope they don’t make her sick. What was her name?”

  “I didn’t get it.”

  “No matter. Or Mrs. Fries will know.” He turned around, saw Hazel behind them in the hatch. “What are you grinning about?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I just enjoy seeing a couple of cold-cash businessmen at work.”

  “Money isn’t everything!”

  “Besides,” added Pollux, “it’s good advertising.”

  “Advertising? With your stock practically gone?” She snickered. “There wasn’t any ‘grand offer’—and I’ll give you six to one it wasn’t your five hundredth sale.”

  Castor looked embarrassed. “Aw, she wanted it! What would you have done?”

  Hazel moved up to them, put an arm around the neck of each. “My boys! I’m beginning to think you may grow up yet. In thirty, forty, fifty more years you may be ready to join the human race.”

  “Aw, lay off it!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE WORM IN THE MUD

  COST-ACCOUNTING ON THE FLAT-CAT DEAL

  turned out to be complicated. The creatures were all descendants of Fuzzy Britches, chattel of Lowell. But the increase was directly attributable to food fed to them by everyone—which in turn had forced them to eat most of the luxury foods stocked by the twins for trade. But it had been the twins’ imaginative initiative which had turned a liability into an asset. On the other hand they had used freely the capital goods (ship and electronic equipment) belonging to the entire family. But how to figure the probable worth of the consumed luxury foods? Whatever the figure was, it was not just original cost plus lift fuel.

  Roger Stone handed down a Solomon’s decision. From the gross proceeds would be subtracted Meade’s percentage for singing; the twins would be reimbursed for the trade goods that had been commandeered; the balance would be split three ways among the twins and Lowell—all to be settled after they had traded high grade for refined metal at Ceres, then sold their load at Luna.

  In the meantime he agreed to advance the twins’ money to operate further, Fries having promised to honor his sight draft on Luna City National.

  But for once the twins found no immediate way to invest money. They toyed with the idea of using their time to prospect on their own, but a few trips out in the scooter convinced them that it was a game for experts and one in which even the experts usually made only a bare living. It was the fixed illusion that the next mass would be “the glory rock”—the one that would pay for years of toil—that kept the old rockmen going. The twins knew too much about statistics now, and they believed in their ability rather than their luck. Finding a glory rock was sheer gamble.

  They made one fairly long trip into the thickest part of the node, fifteen hundred miles out and back, taking all one day and the following night to do it. They got the scooter up to a dawdling hundred and fifty miles per hour and let it coast, planning to stop and investigate if they found promising masses, having borrowed a stake-out beacon from Fries with the promise that they would pay for it if they kept it.

  They did not need it. Time after time they would spot a major blip in the stereo radar, only to have someone else’s beacon wink on when they got within thirty miles of the mass. At the far end they did find a considerable collection of rock traveling loosely in company; they matched, shackled on their longest lines (their father had emphatically forbidden free jumping) and investigated. Having neither experience nor a centrifuge, their only way of checking on specific gravity was by grasping a mass and clutching it to them vigorously, thus getting a rough notion of its inertia by its resistance to being shoved around. A Geiger counter (borrowed) had shown no radioactivity; they were searching for the more valuable core material.

  Two hours of this exercise left them tired but no richer. “Grandpa,” announced Pollux, “this is a lot of left-over country rock.”

  “Not even that. Most of it’s pumice, I’d say.”

  “Git for home?”

  “Check.”

  They turned the scooter around by flywheel and homed on the City Hall beacon, boosting it up to four hundred miles per hour before letting it coast, that being the top maneuver they could figure on for the juice they had left in their tanks. They would have preferred to break the speed limit, being uneasily aware that they were late—and being anxious to get home; the best designed suit is not comforta
ble for too long periods. They knew that their parents would not be especially worried; while they were out of range for their suit radios, they had reported in by the gossip grapevine earlier.

  Their father was not worried. But the twins spent the next week under hatches, confined to the ship for failing to get back on time.

  For a longer period nothing more notable took place than the incident in which Roger Stone lost his breathing mask while taking a shower and almost drowned (so he claimed) before he could find the water cut-off valve. There are very few tasks easier to do in a gravity field than in free fall, but bathing is one of them.

  Dr. Stone continued her practice, now somewhat reduced. Sometimes she was chauffeured by the miner assigned to that duty; sometimes the twins took her around. One morning following her office hours in City Hall she came back into the Stone looking for the twins. “Where are the boys?”

  “Haven’t seen them since breakfast,” answered Hazel. “Why?”

  Dr. Stone frowned slightly. “Nothing, really. I’ll ask Mr. Fries to call a scooter for me.”

  “Got to make a call? I’ll take you—unless those lunks have taken our scooter.”

  “You needn’t, Mother Hazel.”

  “I’d enjoy it. I’ve been promising Lowell a ride for weeks. Or will it take too long?”

  “Shouldn’t. It’s only eight hundred miles or so out.” The doctor was not held down to the local speed limit in her errands of mercy.

  “Do it in two hours, with juice to spare.” Off they went, with Buster much excited. Hazel allotted one-fourth her fuel as safety margin, allotted the working balance for maximum accelerations, figuring the projected mass-ratios in her head. Quite aside from the doctor’s privilege to disregard the law, high speed was not dangerous in the sector they would be in, it being a “thin” volume of the node.

  Their destination was an antiquated winged rocket, the wings of which had been torched off and welded into a tent-shaped annex to give more living room. Hazel thought that it had a shanty-town air—but so did many of the ships in Rock City. She was pleased enough to go inside and have a sack of tea and let Lowell out of his spacesuit for a time. The patient, Mr. Eakers, was in a traction splint; his wife could not pilot their scooter, which was why Dr. Stone granted the house call.